Роберт Паркер - Sixkill

“How about the condo,” Zebulon said.

“Gonna sell it,” Pat said. “I’ll give you a month to find another place.”

“Where’s the club?” Zebulon said.

“Sunset, west of Highland.”

“What time?”

“Tomorrow night, nine o’clock. Wear black pants and a black T-shirt.”

Zebulon nodded.

“Okay,” he said.

Harvard Stadium looked like a smaller version of the Roman Colosseum. Z and I were in the stadium, on the empty football field. We who are about to kick off salute you.

“How far can you sprint?” I said.

“I can run a ways,” Z said.

“How far can you do it full-out, like you were running the hundred.”

“We did forties when I was playing football.”

“Okay,” I said. “We’ll run some intervals. Sprint one hundred yards, walk two hundred. Sprint one hundred, walk two hundred. See how it works out.”

Z shrugged. We walked to the goal line.

I said, “Go,” and we sprinted for the other end zone. At the fifty, Z began to flag. And I was waiting for him in the end zone when he came slowly across the goal line, breathing very hard.

“Now we walk back, and then walk back here, and then sprint another one hundred,” I said.

“Sure,” Z said.

We walked the two hundred at an easy pace. And sprinted one hundred. And walked two hundred. After the eighth sprint, Z threw up.

“Hey,” I said. “You’re in Harvard Stadium.”

Bent over with his hands braced on his thighs, he gasped, “Outta shape.”

We sat in the empty stands for a bit while Z’s health returned.

“I thought I was in shape,” Z said. “I thought I could fight.”

“Confusing,” I said. “You sure you’re a Cree Indian?”

“What they told me,” Z said.

“Good,” I said. “If you were Irish, Sixkill would be a really funny name.”

“Sounds better in Cree,” he said.

“Lemme hear,” I said.

He said something.

“By God, you’re right,” I said.

“What about that girl?” he said.

“Know anything?”

Z shrugged.

“I was in the living room,” he said. “Jumbo opens the bedroom door, tells me to call.”

“He have many guests like that in his room?”

“Every day,” Z said.

“Always girls?”

“Girls, boys,” Z said.

“Not choosy,” I said. “And great natural charm.”

“They wanna fuck a star,” Z said.

“Dawn like that?” I said.

“Ready to play any game Jumbo wanted.”

“He play games?” I said.

“Kinky stuff?”

“Yes.”

“Whadda you think?” Z said.

“I’d rather not think about it,” I said.

“He used to carry sex tools in a gym bag,” Z said.

“Was Dawn Lopata his standard MO?”

“Sure. Had them scheduled, like regular. Days ahead.”

“Any trouble before?” I said.

“Not much,” Z said. “Couple pregnancies. Paid them off.”

“And the boys?” I said.

“None of them get pregnant.”

“The press?”

“They write about him, his lawyers go after them hard, and they get sort of discouraged. But what does get printed is Jumbo pretending.”

“The public seems less willing to buy this kid’s death,” I said.

“Which means Jumbo is in trouble,” Z said. “You flounder, they let you drown.”

“So what is Jumbo Nelson really like?” I said.

Z shook his head.

“Sick,” Z said. “Mean.”

“I’da guessed that,” I said.

Some clouds had drifted in front of the sun, and a light rain began to fall as we walked back to my car. Harvard probably had a deal with nature to clean up after someone barfs.

Rita and I sat with Jumbo Nelson in Rita’s office. Jumbo’s agent was with him, and a new bodyguard he’d imported from Los Angeles, who was wearing a black shirt, a black tie, and a snap-brim hat.

The bodyguard leaned on the wall beside the door and folded his arms. The agent was a good-looking woman in a creamcolored pantsuit. She wore rimless glasses with a pink tint.

“I’m Alice DeLauria,” she said. “I’m Jumbo’s agent.”

Rita introduced herself and me.

“Boston is quite lovely in the spring,” Alice said. “I hadn’t realized.”

“Can the fucking schmooze, Alice,” Jumbo said. “Tell ’em why we’re here.”

Alice smiled.

“Isn’t he cranky,” she said. “But okay, bottom line, we wish to discuss a change.”

“Such as?” Rita said.

“Such as getting rid of this asshole,” Jumbo said, and jerked his head at me.

I looked at Rita.

“Asshole?” I said.

She smiled.

“I guess he knows you better than I thought,” she said.

“I would advise you strongly against getting rid of Mr. Spenser,” Rita said. “He is very good at this work.”

“He hasn’t done a fucking thing to get this cockamamie charge off my back.”

“If it can be gotten off,” Rita said, “we will do it.”

“I’m firing him,” Jumbo said.

“You can’t fire him,” Rita said. “He works for me.”

“Then I’m firing you,” Jumbo said.

“You can’t fire me, either,” Rita said. “Because I quit.”

“Quit?” Jumbo said. “You can’t quit on me.”

“Can too,” Rita said.

“Well, fuck you, then. There’s a few other lawyers around,” Jumbo said.

“There are,” Rita said. “And if you hire one, I’ll bring him up to speed with where I am. Meanwhile, this meeting is over. Beat it.”

“Alice,” Jumbo said. “Goddamn it...”

“Oh, shut up, Jumbo,” Alice said.

She stood up and put her hand out to Rita.

“Well,” she said. “Kind of short, but certainly sweet.”

Rita smiled and shook her hand.

“Kind of sweet,” Rita said.

Jumbo stood up.

“Fuck both of you,” he said.

Rita smiled.

“Beautifully put,” she said.

The bodyguard opened the door. Jumbo waddled through it at full speed, with Alice DeLauria behind him. The bodyguard went out after them and closed the door.

Rita and I looked at each other.

“Who you suppose does the bodyguard’s wardrobe?” I said.

“George Raft,” Rita said.

Pearl, Susan, and I were sitting on the top step of her front porch on the first warm evening of spring. It was still light. The sun wouldn’t set until after seven o’clock. Susan and I were having cocktails. Pearl was surveying Linnaean Street.

“You’re going to stay with the case even though you’re fired,” Susan said.

“You think?” I said.

She smiled.

“I know,” she said.

“Why would I do that?” I said.

“Because you told Martin Quirk that you would,” Susan said.

“I didn’t say I’d do it for free.”

“But you will if you have to,” she said.

“How can you be so sure?” I said.

“Because you are a simple tool, and I know you better than I know anything.”

“Don’t be so cocky,” I said. “You might be wrong, sometimes.”

“Are you sticking with the case?”

“Well,” I said, “yeah.”

“Is it because you told Quirk you’d do it?” Susan said.

“Well, yeah.”

“Is anybody paying you?”

“Well, no.”

“See?”

“Okay, you got that part right,” I said. “But it doesn’t make me a simple tool.”

“I could sum you up in a sentence,” Susan said.

“What would it be?”

“You do what you say you’ll do. You aren’t afraid of much. And you love me.”

“That’s three sentences,” I said.